


I'm Bad At Titles

by ccanidae



Category: Hiveswap, Homestuck
Genre: Hypnosis, Mind Control, Oral Sex, Other, also sorry for this in general, dubcon, i hate ardata actually, noncon, probably ooc sorrry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 19:46:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16687765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ccanidae/pseuds/ccanidae
Summary: nasty nasty fic.





	I'm Bad At Titles

Her mouth is twisted into an unfriendly frown as she turns the key that locks you into your new home: the cage that, moments before, had been occupied by the rust-blooded troll who now lies several feet away on a dull metal table, in a sickening, unnatural position with his thoracic cavity messily emptied by a now-missing, enormous tick. 

In spite of your predicament, you cannot bring yourself to feel afraid. In fact, a tingle of excitement rushes through you while you watch Ardata summon her other prisoner— a bronze-blood with forked horns, one cracked— to clean the mess left by her lusus. You’re only half-certain that her mind-control is working on you, because you know that this shouldn’t feel right, but it does, and you know that you should be looking away, but you don’t want to. You’re exactly where you want to be right now, and that’s watching through the iron bars of your prison, admiring your captor as she oversees the work of her poor low-blood slave. The frown from just moments before is gone, replaced by the slightest upward curve of her plump and perfectly black lips. No doubt she is pleased by the bronze-blood’s devotion to their task: they have taken their shirt off, and they’re now using it to scrub determinedly at the drying puddles of burgundy blood on the floor. 

You might normally find yourself feeling sorry for them, but for now you are entirely unconcerned. You’re hardly paying attention to them; instead your eyes follow Ardata’s curves— down her cape, what you can make out of her lovely wide hips… and you start to think about just how you ended up in this cage. She had, so kindly, shown you her basement, and told you to watch what she had to show you. And so kindly, she had ignored your growing agitation as she opened the rust-blood’s cage and waited for him to lay down on the table. When you had realized what was going to happen, you’d sorely overreacted, had shoved the giant tick off the poor troll on the table, and tried to plunge one of the many knives hanging beside the table into the lusus’s abdomen. The next thing you knew, you were in the cage and feeling absurdly calm. 

You reflect on how patient and merciful Ardata is to have forgiven you for your violent outburst. Looking back on your behavior, you really do feel ashamed of it, of nearly putting your newfound friend through the grief of losing her guardian.

Then for the briefest of moments, your blissful state of mind evaporates— she’s met your gaze, and something distracts her, breaking the focus she needs to maintain her spell over you. For the briefest of moments you feel just what you should feel: profound, electric panic. You need to get out of here, you need to get that bronze-blood out, you—  
—and the moment is over. Peace settles over your mind as the blue-blooded woman regains control and approaches you. There isn’t a trace of the displeasure that lines her face when she locked you up. You wonder if she’s used to such misbehavior when trying to make friends, and then you think hopefully as you take in that smile that maybe you’re special. Her voice makes you feel like you’re vibrating on the inside, like anything can happen and you want it to. You want it so, so badly. 

“I really wish I hadn’t had to do that,” she says coolly, like she’s not mad, just disappointed. “Now, have you learned your lesson?” 

You almost trip over your tongue in your eagerness to tell her yes, but you find yourself. “Oh yes. Yes! I acted so terribly and really— I don’t deserve your forgiveness. Not at all! But I’m so glad you came back to me. So I could—so I could give you my deepest apologies.” You avert your eyes, both in a show of respect and in an attempt to hide your feelings from those cerulean eyes that bore right into you. You swallow, taking a moment to get your bearings. She is silent, waiting for more, so you continue: “I am so, so, so—sorry. For what I did. And I understand if you don’t want to be friends anymore, really… but I’ll do anything for you. I’ll feed your lusus, I’ll cook your meals, sharpen your instruments…”

Ardata’s silence stretches for several uncomfortable seconds after you trail off, but this time, she’s not waiting for you. When you look up, her expression is somewhere between amused and thoughtful. You make no attempt to rush her decision, though you hope she makes one soon. She does. 

The key turns and the door swings open faster than you can think. She looks pleased when you remain still, crouched and watching, listening for orders or praise.

“I’m so glad,” she says, with a hand bashfully covering one corner of her fanged mouth, “that you know you did wrong. So glad you’re willing to atone for the stress you caused me. Willing to accept my forgiveness.” 

Your heart simultaneously soars and aches with pride and guilt. 

“Of course, this doesn’t mean you’re forgiven yet. You will have to earn that.” 

You give a fervent nod, knowing that any amount of hard labor is worth getting back in Ardata’s good graces.  
But without any warning, she gets up and leaves. You remain in your cage, with the door open, and watch her go. You look helplessly, then, to the enslaved bronze-blood, but they take no notice of you: they’re too busy working themself to exhaustion with a blank smile on their face. 

 

It’s several minutes before the first spasms hit you, making you gasp and restrain a cry. Your muscles move without your input— with jerky movements you exit the cage and, with a succession of gasps, you ascend the stairs first to the ground floor and then to the upper. If you had any choice, you would stop in front of the door to the ablution block and collapse. But of course, you have no choice. Clumsily you slam the door shut and shed your clothes with a dim sense of embarrassed horror—still not in control of yourself, you step into the shower and turn the water as hot as it will go. Normally you would dance over to the walls, arching your back to avoid the steaming water, and adjust the taps. This time, of course, you react in none of these reasonable ways. Instead, feeling as though you could just screech your pain if your throat muscles only let you, you scrub yourself from horn to grub-scar to bulge to foot until your skin is raw and tingly— but clean. 

In your altered state, you make no effort to dry yourself once the water’s off. You also make no attempt to clothe yourself, instead stepping out into the empty hallway stark naked and walking, without any intention of your own, to the door at the end. You know she’s in there, and you want to raise your hand to open the door, but at this point the control over your body ceases and leaves you trembling as you focus your effort into holding yourself upright. 

Still, you manage to opt for a polite knock. Nothing less would be acceptable. 

She opens the door and smiles as if she’s surprised to see you, as if you aren’t standing at her bedroom door in the nude. But then her expression changes to one of expectation, with her lips just a little pursed. She places her hands on her hips.

You know what she wants, and you deliver. “Thank you,” you say, a bit breathlessly. Once again, she looks pleased with you, and you feel yourself glow with pride. 

“You’re well on your way back to my good side,” she purrs, before sitting on the edge of her bed. “Now, close the door and let’s get started.” 

You do as she says and go to join her on the bed. Calmly, as if she planned this, she pushes you right off. You look up in confusion, see that she has stood up and is dropping her skirt, and then look away. Her hands, once again, are on her hips, and her face is impatient— and her thick, blue bulge is writhing, looking as frustratedly eager as her face does. “On your knees,” she orders.

Ever-obedient, you get down on your knees and look up for approval. She nods, but she doesn’t look satisfied. Well, you’ve caught on by now, and you’re eager to please. So you lean forward and open your mouth to let Ardata’s bulge find its own way in, knowing very well from looking at it that it’ll choke you. 

She had said that this would take work. 

With that in mind, you close your eyes and let her pull you up, closer to her, by a fistful of hair. It’s too soon, you think for a moment, to take all of it down your throat—but you hear a sigh from above, and you resolve to finish her by your own will, without her pulling the strings of your muscles. 

Your eyes are watering already. It’s okay, you think blissfully, this is fine—nothing can be better than pleasing Ardata. She fucks your face hard, and her bulge completely blocks off your trachea, but you don’t want her to stop, and you know she likes it because you can feel her hips tremble every time she pulls back and pushes her bone bulge further—

The mind control breaks, and you almost slip back into panic. Choking, you look up at her. She clearly hasn’t noticed that her spell has broken. 

You feel a lot more conflicted about this now, naturally: about the forced shower, about doing this to win back her friendship, about… about this actually being hot, actually wanting to get her off. You feel filthy for not wanting to stop. But you figure that while you’re here, you might as well let her know that you have some control, for now. So you bite down on her soft, slippery bulge and relish in her cry. 

Ardata looks down at you, her three eyes blazing with rage, and you prepare to feel that peaceful haze descend on your brain again. 

It doesn’t. 

By the time she releases her deluge of genetic material down your esophagus, you think you’re going to pass out from the lack of oxygen, but she withdraws just in time to leave you doubled over and gasping in long, desperate breaths. If she tells you to get out as you expect her to, you don’t hear her, and she’s too exhausted to make you leave by physical or psychic means.

So the two of you end up laying together in her bed, panting and coming close to growling. You don’t know how much time passes before you regain your breath and tell her, “You sicken me.” 

“I didn’t give you permission to speak,” Ardata says. 

Neither of you say anything else for the rest of the night.


End file.
